This was very therapeutic to write 24 hours after finishing Last Stand of Dead Men. I mean really, really cathartic. I thought I was going to die after finishing the book (and I did a little on the inside), but writing this fic gives me hope. By the way, writing in Skulduggery's POV is incredibly fun to do! I should try it more often...
Also, there are a few LSODM hints but no earth-shaking spoilers, but you've been warned.
Disclaimer: I don't own Skulduggery Pleasant. If I did the last book would not have ended the way it ended.
He should have held her more.
Why hadn't he held her more? She fit perfect in his arms, all warmth and gentle hands tracing the emptiness of his ribcage. She was everything. Good, bad, twisted, pure. Everything. Lovely to look at and lovely to hold and he should have just broken her and marked her as sold. Then he could have had her forever.
As it was, he couldn't. She was gone and in her place stood a replica so similar that he was tempted to close his metaphorical eyes and pretend that Valkyrie was the one lounging next to him in the Bentley, not a cheap imitation of her. She/it/whatever was sitting quietly, gazing out the window, a thoughtful expression on she/it/whatever's face. Valkyrie wouldn't be sitting quietly. She'd be sitting with her legs crossed, one foot jangling impatiently as they drove on, whining, complaining, poking him with her wit and prodding him with her words, and he would be enjoying every second of it.
Skulduggery had been staring too long at the reflection that mocked him without saying a word, and that place in his chest were his heart used to be started aching again. He jerked his head back sharply to the road and lulled his mind into a false sense of focus. But that niggling temptation was still present, like the darkness that hid in the shadows of his bones. Unseen but so very there. How easy would it be to simply reach over and tug the girl next to him into his arms and pretend, if only for a moment, that it was his partner, his real partner? Too easy. She/it/whatever didn't deserve his hugs, even if they were for his benefit alone. His hugs were special. Unique, just like him. They were skeleton hugs, and only Valkyrie deserved skeleton hugs.
His hugs were so exceptional, in fact, that he only gave them out on special occasions — even to those deserving few of which Valkyrie was first. She'd understood that, but then who was he to deem what a special occasion was? Shouldn't another day, another hour, another minute where she hadn't given into Darquesse have been considered a special occasion? If that were the case, then he never should have let her go. If he had been even a halfway decent partner and best friend he would have scooped her up in his arms and trapped her there against his hollow chest for all eternity. It may have hindered their fighting technique slightly, but they'd have managed. Probably have created a new martial art, at that: The Art of Flailing Lethally While Your Partner Uses You as a Human Shield.
It had a nice ring to it.
Skulduggery would have to tell her about it when he got her back. Because he would get her back, and when he did there wouldn't be single soul, dead or alive, that could pry her from his arms again. He had a promise to keep, after all, and until the end still had a long way to go.